a collection of short stories

Tuesday and Thursday

They passed each other every Tuesday and Thursday morning. She was heading east, into the rising sun; he was heading west, into the leftover shadows of dawn.

Both knew that they'd brush shoulders at exactly 7:42am, unless circumstances prevented routine.
On the days when his neighbor would catch him to whine about his loud jazz, and on the days when her alarm wouldn't ring and her coffee was cold--they would end up missing each other, and would most certainly spend the rest of the day wondering if they'd ever see each other again.

In a way, they had fallen in love with each other, even though they had never spoken or made eye contact. I suppose lonely people fall in love with the idea of not being lonely anymore. And some people can't resist the romanticism involved with a stranger, they feed on the mystery of the unknown.

And she did love mysteries. She would curl up at the end of the day, with a mystery novel and a bubble bath. Her feet would ache when she stepped in (she ran around the office too much), but by the time she climbed out she'd be prune-like and absolutely relaxed. She'd take a glass of wine to bed and finish the last few chapters of her book, and then think to herself that she should write one. Maybe about him.

He, on the other hand, would spend his evenings at the bar with his college buddies, reminiscing about the good old days, when life seemed easier and less...boring. He would pay his tab and then walk three blocks home, past her building (but he didn't know it was her building). He wouldn't read a book, instead he'd glance at the newspaper and try to do the crossword. Eventually, when he was frustrated because he couldn't solve 11 across, he'd flomp on his king-size bed and snore for a few hours. He always was tense when he went to sleep, and when he'd wake up with a sore back, he never could understand why. Mysteries just weren't his thing.

They had named each other in their heads.

He called her Coffee Girl, because she always held a burning cup of coffee in her hand, with an iron grip. She never had the lid on tight, and as she charged down the sidewalk in her power suit, it would always slosh tiny brown droplets onto her clicking heels. He always promised himself that he would tell her her shoes looked like a Dalmatian, and maybe smoothly drop a napkin on them and help her clean them up. But he never did, he'd always look away whenever she passed by.

She called him Tie Man, because he always had a crazy tie to clash with his fancy business suit. Some days it was bright purple, other days it was covered in tiny superheros. She wondered what it would be like if she reached out one day and felt the silkiness of the tie, and looked him in his eyes and told him she loved it. It was strange, now that she thought about it, how she didn't know his eye color. Whenever she looked at his face, he was always far enough away where he wouldn't notice and things wouldn't be awkward. When he got close enough to look at her, too, she'd glance down at her feet and cringe at the splatter coffee-stains all over them. She wondered if he'd notice them, and what he'd think.

They passed each other by, at 7:42am every Tuesday and Thursday. And when they brushed by, they'd hold their breath and secretly inhale each others scent. They knew they were being ridiculous, because they were adults and adults shouldn't act like teenagers. But they were both too nervous to make a move, or to smile. Perhaps they were even too comfortable in their loneliness, in their single-life. To risk something so precious on a stranger was too scary of an idea. Because what if he didn't like mysteries, and what if she never wanted to go out and have fun?

After two months, she finally left her apartment and pervy landlord, and he got a new job at a rival firm. She had her heart broken twice by her cousin's cousin's best friend's brother whom she met at a Christmas party. It was a nasty breakup, and he returned her favorite coat that she left at his studio. As for her mystery man, he ended up throwing himself into his job because he had nothing better to do. His romantic escapades included an unsuccessful attempt at seducing the girl who worked in HR, and mild flirting with the barista at Starbucks.

They rarely wondered about each other. They both had consoled themselves with the stupidity of crushing on a stranger. She was certain he picked his nose; he was certain she chewed without her mouth close, anyways. But sometimes, when she debated on writing a mystery novel, and he tried to figure out that one word on his crossword puzzle--they would remember the brief fling that wasn't a fling at all. They would spend a few seconds thinking about "what if", but they would never find out.

Because neither had the courage to look a stranger in the eye.